'It's almost two forty-five now and I very much doubt that you'll be missed before the eight o'clock shift. What time do you normally arrive I wonder? Not early so that gives us six hours. Plenty of time!'

Saunders had subsided into a confused stupor, exhausted by his previous asphyxia and already terrified into some sort of dumb acceptance. The man sensed that further words, delicate, almost sensual threats that he had rehea.r.s.ed silently so many times, would have little effect. He brought his accessories into the living room and started to arrange them on the carpet between the television and the couch. He paused to stare at the p.o.r.nography on the screen and the sight of it made him grin broadly.

'A fitting backdrop, don't you think? If the pain gets too much you can always try and focus on the three of them. But first, I want to show you what I've brought for our mutual amus.e.m.e.nt.

'I've chosen a simple theme "do it yourself" I rather liked that though I've never been much of a handyman so I'm afraid I haven't had much practice but I don't think that will spoil things.'

As he spoke he set out his props: three sharpened screwdrivers, two pairs of pliers, electric wire, a hammer, a hacksaw and small electric drill.

'There. All set. We just need to decide where to start.' He glanced over his shoulder, momentarily distracted by the sights on the screen.

'Well, will you look at that!' He said with glee. 'Inspiration. Off we go then.'

He picked up the hacksaw and turned all his attention to the corpulent man on the couch.

Dawn was long past when he finally packed his equipment away. He'd made more of a mess than he had intended and it took a while to tidy up before he found the shower. His nose wrinkled in disgust at its filthy state as he chose an anti-dandruff shampoo from a surprising selection in the bathroom cupboard. The shower was invigorating and he enjoyed the sensation of slipping into his clean clothes afterwards. The dustbin liner was reused for his b.l.o.o.d.y rubber suit and tools. His gloves were still wet with drying blood and he was tempted to leave them behind but last minute caution stopped him. He felt incredibly confident, almost protected, but there was no point inviting problems.

He left the house at seven-thirty, slipping out through a strip of back garden that had been left to go to seed, rather like its late owner. His escape route was already planned and he caught the number 25 bus with ease. As it pa.s.sed the prison he raised his newspaper in front of his face, not so much to hide as to conceal a smile of contempt. They would be starting to wonder about Saunders soon. What would they make of his murder? The idea of their confusion and horror was a powerful aphrodisiac and he scanned the bus expectantly. There was a nurse sitting in the front seat. He sighed deeply with contentment and an old lady opposite rewarded him with a quiet smile.

'Dreadful place that,' she volunteered and he nodded his head earnestly.

'Full of terrible people,' he agreed.

Something in his tone must have been wrong because the old woman peered at him curiously. Perhaps the bus had been a bad idea after all. He pretended to study a poster and the woman looked away but he could sense her s.n.a.t.c.hing glances at him and he decided to leave the bus at the next stop. The nurse was out of the question anyway now.

He walked the remaining mile to a small car park that he had selected for its lack of CCTV and picked out his vehicle. Intelligence was his main weapon, or so he thought, and it amused him to consider how the police would try to think when they came to investigate his handiwork.

He had never killed a man before and it had been surprisingly satisfying. There had been no urgency, no desire that needed to be held in check, so that inflicting pain had been almost scientific. As he drove away he acknowledged that he had learnt a lot and it amused him to think about how he might apply it to the police b.i.t.c.h. Had he not been so sure that her evidence was going to be rejected he would have killed her before the trial. That had been a mistake; he had underestimated her, which meant that a simple death would not suffice. She deserved more.

The teasing was still fun and he thought that it was starting to work. She was losing weight and had grown even more isolated from her friends. He wanted her to suffer in the same way that Wayne was having to, to feel imprisoned in her own life before he ended it for her. But her time was coming. He was not known for his patience and normally thought self-control a waste of energy. As soon as she was truly scared he would kill her, right under the noses of her colleagues.

He stopped at a zebra crossing and waved a mother and child across, giving them a friendly smile as she mouthed a thank you at him before he drove on.

CHAPTER SEVEN.

By the end of the week Nightingale had received a further twenty-three hang up calls, four Emails from Pandora inviting her to play a game, and two requests from Doctor Batchelor for a meeting. In the end she checked out his credentials and agreed to an interview over the phone just to shut him up.

Batchelor was in no obvious rush to discuss Griffiths and Nightingale had no intention of raising the subject.

'You're not going to ask me, are you?'

'Ask you what, Doctor?'

'About Griffiths.'

'Why should I?'

'All right. I'm not going to play games. It's just that sometimes a victim will show a continuing interest in the perpetrator of the crime against them. It's quite common.'

'I'm not common,' she said, 'and I'm not a victim.' She immediately regretted her protest. There was no need to explain herself to him.

'But you were attacked. And injured.'

'So? It happened whilst he was resisting arrest.'

'I see.' He was meant to be asking her about Griffiths, not psychoa.n.a.lysing her and she didn't appreciate his word games.

'Get on with it, Doctor, I have work to do.'

'Very well. I see Wayne once or twice a week. He has changed in that time from near suicidal to merely depressed.'

'Sounds like progress.'

Batchelor took her comment at face value.

'Yes, but I've brought him so far and no further.'

'You've barely spent six weeks with him. Give it time.'

'But I can find no way to penetrate his facade. I'm looking for an insight that will help me take his therapy on to the next stage.'

'Surely it's highly irregular to contact someone like me. Speak to his family, or be patient. I can't see how I can help.'

'He has no family, at least he hasn't admitted to any and there are no records of friends on his file.'

'Well I'm sorry, Doctor Batchelor, but I can't help you...unless you're not telling me something.' It was a statement, not a question, but as soon as she had said the words Nightingale wanted to take them back. She did not want to become involved with Griffiths in any way. She had nightmares enough and didn't need more information to fuel them. Batchelor s.n.a.t.c.hed at her remark with obvious relief.

'You're right. I didn't want to worry you but it seems I have no alternative. Griffiths has kept sc.r.a.pbooks of the investigation and trial. I judged that it would help him to confront and manage the guilt I believe rests at the heart of his problem.'

'Oh please! The man's a sociopath. He has no concept of guilt. He's wholly driven by the desire for power and control over anyone on whom he becomes fixated.'

'That's one idea,' his sarcasm was unexpected, 'but mine is different.'

Batchelor's studied calm was starting to irritate Nightingale.

'Then why don't you share it with me?'

'My diagnosis is bound by patient privilege.'

'I thought that you hadn't yet made a diagnosis.'

She could hear irritation in the sigh and decided to say goodbye. Enough was enough.

'Wait.' Batchelor sounded desperate. 'The truth is that I do have some emerging ideas. If I could count on your discretion...'

'Whom would I tell?' She scoffed at his hesitation.

'Very well. I mentioned his sc.r.a.pbooks. He has two, one is full of cuttings and print-outs from the Internet.'

'Internet! Are you mad? That's how he found and stalked his victims.' An unwelcome memory of Pandora's messages surfaced and Nightingale went cold.

'It's only under my direct supervision. I allow him five minutes use as a reward at the end of my session though the Governor is threatening to stop even that. I watch him the whole time. He can only surf and print. Under no circ.u.mstances could he send or receive a message.'

'I still think it's an unnecessarily risky thing to do, but you said there were two sc.r.a.pbooks. What's in the second?'

'You. It's full of pictures and photographs, and every single word that was written about you during and after the trial.'

'Why?'

'That's what I was hoping you might be able to tell me.'

'I have no idea. Is it just me? None of his other victims?' She bit her lip and hoped that he hadn't noticed her slip of the tongue.

'Only you. What happened that should make you so important to him?'

'I arrested him and gave evidence that led to his conviction. He's bound to resent me, perhaps even hate me.'

'I don't think it's that simple. This is not about resentment or hate.' The way he said the words made her think that he knew more than he was sharing.

'What aren't you telling me?'

Batchelor sighed, suddenly uncomfortable.

'When the press cuttings stopped he started to draw. He's using your photographs as a model. He makes you look like a cross between a queen and a warrior.'

'He's drawing Artemesia, the huntress.'

'Interesting. If that's who it is, then he sees you as a manifestation. The portraits are perfect.'

'And he hasn't drawn any other characters from THE GAME?'

'Only you.'

'Well, my amateur a.n.a.lysis is that he's fantasising about controlling me. Now, I really have to go.'

'Can you tell me more about Artemesia?'

'Buy a copy of THE GAME, it's all in there. Oh, Doctor, just one more thing,' she hoped that she sounded casual, 'does he have access to a phone?'

'No, not yet. The Governor's too worried about him. Why?'

'Nothing.'

After she replaced the phone she replayed the conversation over again. Was Griffiths her unwelcome caller? If so then he was finding a way to access the phone unofficially and at all times of the day and night, and that was impossible. It could not be him.

'Wake up, Nightingale, they're looking for you.' A ball of paper bounced harmlessly off her head. DS Randall shook his head in exasperation. 'You were expected in a briefing five minutes ago.'

Nightingale looked at her watch, five past three. She had put the phone down just after two and she couldn't recall doing anything since. A whole hour gone! She grabbed her notebook and ran from the room.

Sergeant Cooper was in a bad mood, something that was no longer as rare as it had been. For nearly a year the senior officer on his more serious cases had been DI Blite, a man he found it increasingly hard to be civil to, let alone respect. As soon as DCI Fenwick had been seconded to the Metropolitan Police, Blite's ego had expanded to take his place. He had enough arrogance, in Cooper's opinion, for two men but barely enough talent for half. In fact, Cooper thought that his unique skill was the ability to lick the boots of his superior officer whilst having his nose stuck somewhere up their a.r.s.e. Marks out of ten for being a contortionist eleven, for being a good detective nil.

Blite prided himself on being the most effective SIO in the Division. The ACC heaped praise on him for his efficiency, whilst the officers in his team resented the pressure he applied and the hours he expected them to work. They were dealing with a series of violent robberies on a run-down estate. Blite was convinced that the crimes were drug-related but Cooper wasn't so sure. All his instincts told him that they were dealing with something less complicated but more brutal, a gang that simply enjoyed robbing and beating up victims weaker than themselves.

'Now listen up. There are two known drug gangs operating on the Parklea estate. I want you to focus your enquiries on them. So far we've no witnesses and none of the snouts has come up with anything. The latest victim, Emily Thornton, saw them but her gla.s.ses were knocked off during the a.s.sault and she's as blind as a bat without them, so it's little help.'

Nightingale arrived as copies of the briefing were circulating. One look at her convinced Cooper that something was not quite right and he worried that she might shine too bright and burn herself out. The Griffiths investigation had been a step too far. Using her as bait had been Blite's idea but to be fair she had been willing enough to go along with it. Cooper had had his doubts about her role and had gone so far as to consult Fenwick, even though he had been seconded to the Met at the time. The DCI had intervened but been told to mind his own business.

Looking at Nightingale now, Cooper regretted their joint inability to change the course of that investigation. It was widely regarded as a great success, not least by Blite who referred to it on a regular basis, but he was sure they could have achieved the same result through more traditional methods. It would have taken longer, perhaps cost more, but the human toll would have been less.

He caught Nightingale's eye and nodded, no trace of reprimand for her tardiness in his expression. She smiled back but the gesture didn't reach her eyes, which he noticed were blue-ringed.

At the end of the briefing she hung back waiting for him.

'h.e.l.lo, Sarge.' Despite her recent promotion, Nightingale couldn't yet bring herself to call Cooper by his first name. It amused her that he had a similar problem with her, but she took no offence as none was intended.

'Afternoon, Nightingale. So you've drawn the short straw to work with me again have you?'

'I'm looking forward to it. I haven't had a decent case to get my teeth into for a while. Can I be on surveillance? I've been inside for weeks.'

It wasn't often that Cooper had a volunteer for surveillance duty and he agreed quickly.

'You'll be on from oh-seven hundred tomorrow. Your partner will be DC Rike. He's experienced. Keep your mouth shut and your eyes open and you might learn something.'

He watched her walk away and went to see if Fenwick was back from compa.s.sionate leave. He was, and the Chief Inspector motioned him into his office.

'Any chance of two coffees, Anne? Plenty of milk and sugar for Bob.' Fenwick motioned Cooper to sit down in one of his visitor's chairs. The Sergeant regarded the skimpy, metal-framed thing with a feeling close to hatred then eased back into it. The Chief Inspector looked at him expectantly. He wasn't a man for small talk or gossip.

'Just came to say that it's good to have you back. We sort of miss you, me and the others and it would be good to have you more involved in the day-to-day again...' His voice trailed away. What was he saying? He'd just implied that Fenwick was being sidelined despite their growing caseload.

'I'll bear that in mind.'

Cooper winced. He had never grown used to Fenwick's sarcasm. It was as sharp as raw vinegar and about as palatable. He cleared his throat.

'And I also wanted to say that I am sorry for your loss. Me and the missus were both very sorry to hear about Mrs Fenwick.'

It was as if a fine veil descended across Fenwick's face. As far as Cooper could tell, the expression hadn't changed but he had withdrawn behind a mask that obliterated any emotion from his expression.

'Thank you. Now, if that's all...'

Cooper left still holding his untouched coffee and rubbing the back of his right thigh to encourage feeling to return. He should have known better than to stop by.